Page 10 of Love of the Bladed Dove
“As much fun as it was to know a Graystonian princess was starving in our pit, you were takingtoo damn long.” The queen rolled her eyes like this was all terribly inconvenient. “Of course one of your kind couldn’t evendieright.” A few in the crowd laughed. Layla didn’t move.
“I’ve decided to give you a chance at one of our customs. A challenge. Simple rules: you fight. You survive… Or you don’t.” Queen Okteria’s voice rose with relish. “Usually weapons are allowed, but we didn’t want to give ourdear Freatoo much of an advantage.” Her hand gestured to the left. Layla followed it. There, stepping into the light, was the woman. Frea. A warrior carved from obsidian and ruin. Her movements were like the elusive forest panther- graceful, fluid, and laced with lethal intent. Her long black hair was braided down her back, andher eyes bored into Layla’s, promising nothing short of brutality. Hatred poured from her like a heatwave. Layla’s mouth went dry. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t have the strength to fight this woman. Not like this, maybe not even on her best day if she was being honest with herself.But you will,she told herself.Or you’ll die on your knees.So, with a deep breath, Layla raised her hands and slipped instinctively into the defensive stance Sir Charles had engrained in her.
“Begin!” Queen Okteria shouted.
Frea didn’t hesitate. She lunged. Layla ducked, the punch whistling past her ear. The speed stunned her. Frea was already circling again, fluid as a predator. Layla stumbled sideways. Another blow whistled at her-crack. Pain bloomed in her side. She gasped, her legs faltering. Righting herself, Layla swung wildly, a desperate move. Frea slipped it easily and delivered another punishing strike to her ribs. This time, Layla crumpled forward. Then-snap. A fist collided with her face. Her vision shattered. She went down, dirt rushing up to meet her. Black crept at the edges of her sight.Get up!Get up!She pushed herself to her knees—but it was too late. Frea spun. Layla saw the boot coming only for a second before it collided with the side of her skull. Then- nothing.
She awoke on dirt. Again. The cool, familiar floor of the pit. Her current sanctuary but also her tomb. Her body was fire and lead. Her head rang with an unrelenting pulse, each beat a war drum against her skull. She couldn’t see from her left eye. Her ribs howled every time she tried toinhale. It was night again. She’d been unconscious for hours, if not days.At least I’m alive,she thought bitterly. She leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, pulse roaring. She didn’t know how long she could keep surviving this.
“You alive?” came that voice. Velvet Voice. Laidback. Low. Like this was just another night around a campfire. She squinted toward the sound, pain lancing through her face. She didn’t respond. Didn’t have the strength for snark or questions. “You need to figure out some new moves if you're going to wintomorrow,” he said casually, like they were discussing breakfast plans.Tomorrow?Her stomach lurched. Her skin went cold. She felt the vomit surge, clamping her jaw tight to fight it back.Another fight?Her mind spun, trying to calculate how she could possibly recover in time. The answer was: she wouldn’t. Not without help. Not withoutsomething.
The grate above shifted open again, and she tensed. A softthud—then it closed. She opened her eye slowly. Another pouch. Her shaking fingers reached for the pouch, opening it to find the now familiar items, water, meat, and an apple. She pressed the cool leather of the water pouch to her bruised face and exhaled. She didn’t understand him. This man. This voice. He delivered her to death—and then gave her the means to delay it. Was it guilt? Or strategy? Or something else entirely?She didn’t know and honestly she didn’t care at this moment. She needed a plan. She couldn’t survive another day reacting. If she wanted to live, she needed to become something else. Not a princess. Not prey. Afighter.
Chapter seven
Layla.
Layla had drifted in and out of a hazy, aching sleep all night. The darkness was her only company, except for the constant pulse of pain behind her eye and the occasional rattle of her ragged breath. Her brain had felt waterlogged, her thoughts sludgy and fragmented. But still, she had clung to one thing:A plan.A bad one. A desperate, probably-fatal plan. But it was hers.
So when the sun bled gold over the trees and the grate groaned open again, she didn’t shrink. Not when Tynan threw the ladder down like a weapon. Not when his sword hovered behind her like a promise. She climbed. Slowly. Every rung another protest from herbody. Every breath a rasp. Her limbs quaked under the strain.My family needs me,she repeated in her mind like a chant, a shield against the pain. She didn’t speak. Didn’t falter as he shoved her through the settlement. Her bare feet stumbled more than once, tripping over loose earth, but she kept moving. Tynan’s sword sliced shallow lines across her back with each misstep, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward. She would not die crawling.
By the time they reached the Circle, her legs were barely holding her. When he finally pulled the sword away, she crumpled. Not in surrender, but in refusal.You don’t get to knock me down again.She chose to fall. And then, she stood.
Slowly, excruciatingly, she rose to her feet. Every bruise screamed. Her ribs lit with fire. But she stood tall, chin raised, eye zeroed in on the queen atop the stone. Queen Okteria’s smile was all venom and delight. Layla knew the odds. Knew her death was a near certainty. But there was something else buzzing in her chest now. Not fear.Resolve.
And so she spoke. “I challenge…” Layla’s voice cracked. She paused, swallowing against the desert of her throat. “I challenge…him.” She pointed to Tynan. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Tynan blinked, momentarily surprised then grinned like a wolf who’d just been handed a lamb. Queen Okteria tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
“You think you’re calling the shots here?” she asked, voice low and dangerous.
Layla didn’t look away. “If I competed in a challenge yesterday,” she said, teeth grounding slightly, “then I don’t see why I can’t call one today.”
A murmur of amusement swept the gathered warriors. The queen stared down at her in silence, calculating.
“For my freedom,” Layla added, cutting through the noise. “I challenge for my freedom.” Okteria’s eyebrows rose, lips twitching in bemusement.
“You want out of our prison?” she echoed, mocking. “Yourfreedom?” More laughter followed. The queen shrugged, dismissive. “After yesterday? I wouldn’t care what you asked for. You’re not going anywhere but the ground.”
Layla swallowed the rising wave of nausea, keeping her spine straight, even as her legs trembled.
“Any other ridiculous requests before you die?” the queen added, gesturing flippantly.
“Yes.” Layla forced the words out. “Weapons.” That broke the crowd entirely. The laughter was louder this time, genuine disbelief.The prisoner wants weapons.She might as well have requested a crown. But she didn’t care. She needed a fighting chance, even if it was a small one.
Through the laughter, her one good eye found him. Her captor. The one who had carried her, imprisoned her, but also—fed her. Spoken to her.Protected her?He stood near the queen now, his massive frame hard to miss, wrapped in leather, muscle and steel. And he wasn’t laughing. His expression was unreadable, save for one thing: His eyes. They burned into her with something that felt like—worry?Layla’s breath hitched in surprise. Not fear. Not pity. But concern was radiating from him.
Her gaze held his, drawn to the deep blue beneath his brown-sun kissed curls like they offered shelter. For a moment, she forgot the pain.The noise. The Circle... But as quickly as it went, it all slammed back into her as the queen's voice cut through her momentary distraction.
“If you want death that quickly, so be it. Weapons it is.” Okteria’s voice was smooth and cold. “Who’s willing to let their weapon meet Lapetic in her hands?”
Layla’s blood chilled.Oh no.She hadn’t considered this part. No one would offer her a weapon.Why would they?She wasn’t one of them. She was the enemy. A Graystonian. A living trophy. Then movement caught her eye. A man stepped down from the platform. Blond, tall—taller than her captor even. Riddled with tattoos winding intricately across his bronzed skin. His green eyes flashed with mischief and danger. Layla stood her ground as he approached, heart pounding, and tilted her chin up defiantly to meet his eyes.
“So,” he said casually, raking his gaze down her battered form, “what’s your weapon of choice?”
She narrowed her eye, ignoring the wave of fresh heat that spread across her cheeks. Her body may have been wrecked, but she wasn’t blind, he was undeniably beautiful in a cruel, serpent-like way. But his smirk made her want to punch him. Then, to her shock, he pulled a sword from his belt and two daggers from his thigh and held them out toward her. An offer. She blinked, stunned.What game was this?
Layla hesitated for only a breath before her instincts kicked in. She reached out and took the daggers with both hands, leaving the sword behind. Her grip tightened around the hilts, reacquainting herself with the feel of steel in her palms.
She noticed his smirk widen before he returned his sword to it's sheath and turned to walk away.
